


Even

by kentucka



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Twincest, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-17
Updated: 2005-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentucka/pseuds/kentucka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alcohol makes Murphy cryptic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even

**Author's Note:**

> set somewhere in the middle or after the first movie, no particular spoilers.

We’re relaxin’, serious thoughts vanishing like the smoke of our cigarettes, sprawling out on the couch like spilled beer. He’s on the couch; I’m in front of it, on the floor. Another pimp, son-of-a-bitch owning a hustler and drug ring, off the streets. We never tire of celebrating that, ‘cause fuck, it’s what we do. And you should be happy with what you’re doing, especially when you’re good at it. Half of Boston yells it at us from TVs and radios. The other half? Well, fuck ‘em. As long as they’re good people, they’ll probably never meet us.

Murph’s there, fresh bottle of beer in one hand, almost finished cigarette in the other, bliss written all over his face. He’s drunk, I can tell, ‘cause he’s fuckin’ babbling. Not that he’s close-mouthed or anything otherwise, but when he’s had a few too many, he starts talking nonsense nonstop. He’s complaining about the ceiling, damned leaking thing, and how it doesn’t keep anything out, not the cold, the rain, or even bugs.  
I don’t care about the ceiling, or the cold, or whatever really. Not with the gory pictures at the back of my eyelids. I never told him, will never tell him, but they’re there, and they’re fucking disturbing. I wondered often if he has any nightmares the way I do. But if he does, I never noticed. So I keep quiet, listen to his rambling, cute actually, though he’d kill me if I’d say that aloud, and let him wash the bloody images away with his words.

Thirty minutes later, he’s changed topic somewhat, but he’s still half complaining about living arrangements. Just masks it by counting off the fancy things those motherfuckers had in their apartment, and he’s drunk enough now to tick off every finger twice. He wants to keep one of theirs. Doesn’t remember why that won’t work. The happiness in his eyes increased with his intake of beer. Fuckin’ hurts to know how he’s never quite that happy when sober.

“You haven’t drunk enough,” he observes, and it’s probably the one thing he’s got right this evening. So I smile, lift my bottle to take a swing, only to spit it out as if it’s acid. Luke-warm acid. Of course, that’s mightily funny to my dear brother. I growl a “Fuck you!” but he laughs even harder. His upper body sways towards me, and almost smacks me his offered beer in the head, which results in another fit. If the bastard suffocates from laughing at me, it’d be a nice irony.  
No, he calms down, stretches out his arm with the bottle again, more steadily this time, and I finish it off in one long swallow. I feel like it, but we’re Irish, not Russian, so I refrain from throwing it against the wall.

Murph’s still leaning forward, on a couch which isn’t that big, and he’s grinning. Satisfied that my blood alcohol is catching up with his. In the past twenty years I can’t remember a single time one of us has been pissed without the other close behind. And I’m thinking of how we’d caught each other’s falls and supported each other’s weight too often in a short lifetime to count, while I’m staring into bright blue eyes.

“It’s a precarious line between sin and virtue.”

“Huh?” I’m so not following him, and shocked he could actually articulate the words. I thought I was the one too clear-headed here.

“What we’re doing. What I’m doing.”

Can’t hold back. The groan escapes, ‘cause you know, he’s at one of his games again, and just to drive the point home about me being annoyed, I roll my eyes at him. “So, what are you doing, Murph?”

Bastard doesn’t answer, just stares at me in this intense way he has, which -twin or no twin- I’ll never be able to imitate. Can’t even fuckin’ read him when he does that. It’s like suddenly, there are thoughts he can actually hide from me. I hate that.

After a while of me trying to figure him out, he falls back against the cushions and reaches down to the ground, where we stashed the full bottles. Shoves one at me and takes another for himself.  
“I’m committing sins, brother,” he slurs when the glass necks clank together.

We finish off our beers while I eye him warily, recapitulating our day, but nothing comes to mind. Murder? I don’t think he ever regarded our work as a sin. Judging from the slight smirk I sense in his eyes, he’s also not in the mood to talk about our calling.

Murph starts laughing again, laughs at me, points at me, and the empty bottle slips from his hand. Doesn’t break. And then he’s bending forwards again, into the small boundaries of personal space, our breaths mingling as he mocks me.  
“Don’t pout. C’mon brother, don’t be a sissy, don’t pout.”

He knows that I know that he’s not being serious, he’s just baiting me, but he’s doing it well. He never keeps a fucking thing from me. Never did. He’s only ever doing it on purpose, to push my buttons. And yes, fuck, it’s working.  
“What kind of fuckin’ sins, Murph?”

The tauntin grin vanishes, and for a second I believe I hurt him. Like my words struck a chord or something. His right hand lifts, and his forefinger hovers in front of my face, trying to be accurate in its landing point. When it pats my lips, I’m not sure it wasn’t still off course. It rests there, though, cold and damp from the condensation on the bottles. And I can’t take my eyes off his, which watch his finger rubbing in the moisture.

“Can’t confess to you,” Murph says then. “You’re no priest.”

“Aye.” I nod slowly, and his finger, _he_ slips from me, back on the couch again.  
I guess there are things he doesn’t tell me, like I keep my nightmares to myself. He hands out the last couple of bottles, lifts his briefly in a silent toast. Fair enough.


End file.
